


Monsters, Inc.

by mala_ptica



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Collection: Purimgifts Day 3, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-23
Updated: 2013-02-23
Packaged: 2017-12-03 07:31:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/695784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mala_ptica/pseuds/mala_ptica
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Final Purimgift for Wendeleh, who has wonderful taste in shows and heroines, here are some stories of the ladies of sci-fi, and the men who would be lost without them.  Hope you enjoyed.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Monsters, Inc.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wendelah1](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wendelah1/gifts).



> Final Purimgift for Wendeleh, who has wonderful taste in shows and heroines, here are some stories of the ladies of sci-fi, and the men who would be lost without them. Hope you enjoyed.

She hates the Smoking Man with every fiber of her being and then some. Sometimes when she’s out and she smells smoke on someone, she’s halfway tempted to punch them just for making her think of him.

And she smoked in high school too, what a wonder.

So, it hits her, in the middle of burning her banana bread and really, the grocery stores had to be closed at this hour, didn’t they? Just when she got the midnight munchies, waking up after a particularly horrible nightmare and not wanting to go back to sleep.

She considers calling Mulder.

He’s probably awake, anyway.

No, it hits her, that she either needs to kill the Smoking Man and get it over with, or take a vacation to Maui.

Alone.

Or she’s going to kill someone who doesn’t deserve it, and then burnt banana bread at a quarter to one is the very least of her worries.

So, sitting down with a girly mag and a box of stale Girl Scout cookies, she pops in the Colin Firth version of Pride & Prejudice and makes it a few minutes through before nodding off again. His thin shirt, soaked through and plastered against his skin, is good white noise against the barrage of violent images charging in her brain, the constant fear and paranoia and guilt.

Being an FBI agent is hard enough, a doctor – worse, for all the guilt trips in the world, but to have someone actively pulling strings on you, playing a game of throwing you to monsters, that doesn’t help things.

Queequeg’s yipping pulls her out of her reverie.

“No,” she answers automatically, and then he pulls on her sock with his teeth.

“Yes, yes,” she gripes, leaning over to pick up the fuzzball. “Momma doesn’t love you, momma never loved you…”

When she’s close enough, he licks her face. She tucks him in close, and feeds him a bit of jerky from a doggy treat jar she keeps close to the couch, and breathes in his nasty doggy breath and doggy kisses and doggy fur. And if he knows he’s being used as a comfort, he doesn’t show it, for all his claws dig into her legs, but it’s a welcome distraction and he doesn’t judge her when she cries, and he doesn’t leer from doors and plot – well, he does, but it’s usually for food, nothing more sinister. It's enough for tonight, to keep the boogeyman at bay.

**Author's Note:**

> credit: Cloaks' [Fire Texture Pack](http://cloaks.deviantart.com/art/The-Fire-Texture-Pack-77932576)


End file.
